Tag Archives: wind

Wind

a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

wind

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Flow of the Albino Does

a Spenserian sonnet by Thomas Davis

Albino does emerge from banks of snow
Into the moonlight of the winter night.
The sheen of silver from the ghostly glow
Of luminance stained from the full moon’s light
Spreads through the shadows where the snow’s soft white
Moves with the movement of the silent deer.

The maple trees begin to stir, a slight
Breath silent through a sky pristinely clear.
A huge tree cracks. A wave of startled fear
Jerks through the deer. A wind begins
To blow through barking trees, the atmosphere
Alive with movement as the moonlight spins
Light dancing through an empty field that flows
With running waves of ghostly silver does.

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Kinship

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

I’ve come again
to watch your woods,
snow up to my thighs,
winds flying
across the tops of trees—
like when I was little.

On windy days
I would run
into the woods
and listen to the wind
roaring across the tops
of trees,

but stillness would
be beneath.

I think of trees
as family,
kin,
those that are
always there,
steel cores,
centurions
that guard us
from all the clamor
at the top,

the quiet and stillness
beneath,

close family.

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Fields

William Bingen’s, our grandson’s, first poem

Going through fields
with soft soil beneath my feet
I stand with the wind
softly flowing through my hair.
I follow the straight path
made by the farmers plow.
It takes me to a hill
where I gaze off into the fields of wheat.
I hear the sound of silence,
the sound of nature.

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Hiding Places

a love poem by Thomas Davis

I have hidden my face.
The green grass has grown wild about my house,
And the hiding places of the heart
Have multiplied and become numerous.

Spring croaks and thrashes at the wind.
The stars grow plump like yellow pears,
And the trees stand up, straight and proud,
From the soils of the earth.

I chant the words of love
And let my tongue grow dry with history.
I sing out the beauty of the sky
And tell the clouds to be silent
And to cease their rumbling.

Summer is the promise of the sun.
Conflict is the garment of drama.

O woman, you are the wind
And the sound of the wind.
O woman, you are the spirit of the stars.

I have hidden my face.
The green grass has grown wild about my house.
The hiding places of the heart
Have multiplied and become numerous.

O woman, on slippery ground
I will catch you and hold you in my arms.

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Memory

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

A memory
of rain
in a night
when
the wind filled
and spread the sky

a
rain
upon us
and
through us,

on sounds
little known

as feet
of deer,

a rain
falling
between us,

upon
two voices
almost heard
above
the wind.

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